


I Think I Thought I Saw You

by Schwoozie



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alexandria Safe-Zone, Beth Lives, Church Sex, F/M, Hand Jobs, Loss of Faith, One Shot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-25
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-04 08:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6650944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere along the road between Grady and Alexandria, Beth lost her religion. She might not find it ever again. But she's sure as hell to find something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Think I Thought I Saw You

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [reach out and touch faith](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6620371) by [ronsparkyspeirs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronsparkyspeirs/pseuds/ronsparkyspeirs). 



> Title from, quite cliched, "Losing My Religion" by REM.
> 
> This fic is inspired 100% by Yolanda, as are most parts of my life. Please read her work too. It's magical.

For the first few weeks Beth walks past it as if she doesn't see it. No one notices. They're too excited to have her back, whole and healthy and unblemished from her brush with death save by the three scars on her face.

(She accrued far more scars in her journey back to them. Those you can see and those you can't. Most of these people just don't care enough to look.)

When she demurs from going to Sunday service with Maggie and Carol, claiming a headache, there was indulgent smiling and pats on the shoulder, pills offered to help her feel better. _No_ , she wanted to scream, _Save the medicine. Don't waste it on me. One day we're gonna need it for something worse than a damn headache. God ain't doing nothing to stop that_.

But she says nothing. Takes the pills and holds onto them until she can slip away and add them to the collection she has growing in a bag beneath her bed. Little items squirreled away, saved before they can be squandered.

They don't notice but Daryl notices. She knows he does. One time he was the one sent to bring her the pills and he didn't even bother to include a glass of water. Just came to her room and handed them over and left without a word.

Without a word. It's an expression she's always associated with him, but now it bugs her. Bugs her to no end, because she feels his eyes on her, feels everyone's eyes on her but especially his, and when she bends down in front of him in a shirt that she knows will do nothing to hide her braless tits she doesn't hear an intake of breath or a rustle of movement but his eyes scorch her all the way out the door and he keeps his distance and seems angry after that.

She calls it a game but it's not a game, she knows, whatever is happening between them. The tight little shorts she never would have worn before, going without a bra the days she knows she'll be around him. Not touching him, because that would make it too real. But always approaching it, waiting for him to flinch away, to grab her arm like he did in the woods and demand to know what the hell she thinks she's doing.

 _You've had your fun_.

It isn't fun. It isn't fun at all.

But she keeps it up until one day it's Sunday and she's accidentally dressed in one of the nicest dresses she's been able to scavenge—a short fluttery sundress that draws up nearly to her ass when she bends over—and Maggie and Carol beam and she knows what's happening. The mistake she's made in all this fooling around with Daryl while everyone waits for her to find religion again.

It doesn't surprise her when Daryl follows the three of them the short walk to the church. It does when he follows them inside.

She's never been inside, but she has to admire its beauty. She can tell it's old—it has that feel about it—but it's a rich kind of old, well maintained and glistening, nothing like the ramshackle wooden place her parents used to bring her to every Sunday. She always loved the rustic-ness of it, despite the way the smell of rotten wood would cling to her clothes. She can't smell anything in here. No incense, no perfume, no stench of walkers that she thought had sunk into every crack and crevice of this world, no matter the Alexandrian's denial that such a stench exists. She can't smell anything in here and she's beginning to hyperventilate when she feels a hand on her back—just a brush on her back, barely a touch, right at the dip where her ass meets her spine—and she looks up and Daryl's looking at her and she ignores Maggie and Carol's questioning looks when she follows him to a back corner pew.

He seems to know that she doesn't want to sit trapped against the wall so he slides in first, and she follows, feeling unaccountably shy even though he hasn't looked at her legs or her braless chest—continues to exist as if she's just some silly little girl, or a whore flashing her tits for a hitchhike home. She doesn't feel shame, but she feels the familiar pricklings of distaste—the sourness in her mouth that she gets when she looks at the corpse of a person she's killed. She never wanted that. Not with him.

But now she's sitting, the plush cushion comfortable beneath her and there's room in the pew for one more person but no one sits there. Attendance is sparse, barely filling half the rows, and she isn't surprised. There isn't an overabundance of people in the zone anyway; those with faith still left in them, far fewer.

So she doesn't have to sit close to Daryl, and she doesn't, not the way she could; she feels the presence of his leg an inch or two from hers but she doesn't press any closer. Sits slumped in her seat with her gaze on her hands, eyes closing as she hears Gabriel clear his throat to begin.

They're far enough away at the back of the space that it's easy to tune him out, and she does, kicking her feet like a petulant child as she begins to grow bored. She could be _doing_ something right now—manning the wall or weeding the garden or doing the goddamn laundry. But she's here, listening to words she hasn't invested meaning in for a lifetime.

As if guessing at her frustration (there's no 'as if' about it—Beth suspects that Daryl understands her better than anyone she's ever known) Beth feels Daryl's thigh press up against hers. There's no hiding what he's doing; one moment there is space between them and the next Beth's bare thigh is scratching against the roughness of his jeans and she couldn't move if she tried.

She looks up at him, expecting him to be pretending as if nothing is happening, but she ends up meeting his eyes. Staring directly at her, challenging and angry, as if him being here is her fault too.

Except it is. She knows it is. He followed her here and led her to this secluded pew where she wouldn't have to withstand the curious gazes of their neighbors. So they could be alone again, her and him, like this wasn't a thriving congregation but just another empty church to secure for the night.

She sees that in his eyes too, a softening and a sharpening all at once; because out of reflex when Daryl had pushed his thigh against hers her hand had come down on his leg, high on his leg, high enough that...

Beth blushes fiercely when she realizes what it is she has under her hand; not so much her hand as her last two fingers, the rest lying flat while those two rise, curl, shape themselves around something. Something that's growing harder as his eyes do when she doesn't move.

“Girl,” he mouths just as she slides her hand up until she's cupping him in her palm.

He's looking at her like he thinks she's mad now, but she doesn't care; sees only the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he struggles to breathe while keeping silent as always—and it reminds her that they're in a church full of people, a _church_ , the place her parents brought her every Sunday in her floral printed dresses, where she saw babies baptized, people married—

 _And what do married people do?_ she thinks, her thoughts sounding unhinged even to her because she can feel his heartbeat now, pounding though the thick denim from his–

From his penis. His dick. Daryl Dixon's dick.

She almost erupts into giggles, but catches herself, barely; it doesn't stop a smirk from sliding onto her face though, one that makes Daryl's eyes widen before she takes her hand and squeezes.

A sound gushes from his mouth as if he's been punched. Not loud, not enough to draw attention, barely more than the clearing of a throat but her eyes dart away from his anyway, check their surroundings. There are a few pews separating them from everyone else; closest to them is an elderly couple leaning forward to better hear the sermon. She looks back into his eyes and even though she doesn't think he looked away from her for a moment, she knows that he knows too. If they're quiet...

She's thought about this before. When she couldn't fall asleep, curled against his side in the dark, she thought about it. How easy it would be to take this whole thing between them—his hand cupping her elbow and his arm tight across her middle as he pulled her out of the sight of two passing men and his chest so broad and bending as he fell against her at the gates of the city, her catching him as he brought them both to the ground and how he smelled different than the rest of them, smelled like he smelled all those months ago, before cars and hospitals and bullets, smelled like he had the days she wanted to touch him at night—how easy it would be. To be something else. Not more. Else.

And now she's there, at the cusp of it, and she's breathing heavily too, sliding around in her panties, and Daryl does nothing to stop her when her hands go to his belt and then his fly.

He isn't wearing underwear and the knowledge of that makes her heart beat faster, although it's already pounding at a steady canter as she takes him in her hand, drawing him out of his jeans, giving herself time to look at him.

He isn't long, but he's broad, easily thicker than her tiny wrist and her fingers only barely overlap when she curls them around the base, feels his heartbeat pulsing against her palm. He's always had a fast heartbeat, whenever she's been close enough to notice it, but now it's practically rabbiting, and for a split second she's worried she'd going to stop his heart.

But she doesn't let that matter because he feels _good—_ thick and hot and heavy and jerking slightly when she squeezes, bringing her hand almost to the tip before pulling back down.

“Beth,” he whispers.

She ignores him and spits in her hand and passes it over the head of his cock, almost moaning herself at the slick that's gathered there.

“Sit back and be quiet,” she orders, quiet enough that she wouldn't know that he heard her if not for the way his whole body trembles, one hand coming to grip the pew at his side, the other settling on her thigh, high on her thigh, squeezing tight like an anchorage. She looks up at him and he looks lost. “I've never done this before,” she whispers, stricken suddenly with her own fear.

Daryl swallows, and glances around them, and brings the hand from the pew hot and heavy to rest over hers, squeezing so tightly she almost moans.

“Hold it hard,” he says, voice barely a rasp, as he begins to lead her hand up and down. It's easier now, with her spit and his pre-cum, and the sight of his foreskin dragging across the head of his cock makes her realize how much her mouth is watering.

But it isn't the place for that here, especially when she's never done that before either, and besides, it doesn't seem like Daryl will last long enough to try; his mouth is hanging open as he stares down at his lap, hand absent-mindedly squeezing her thigh with each pump and the thought that anyone who glances their way would know what they're doing makes Beth moan out loud.

It isn't a loud moan, not worryingly so, but it snaps Daryl's eyes back to her face, and he stares at her as their hands speed up, stares at her as she pulls the hand on her thigh between her legs to add something to squeeze and grind against. Another gust bursts from Daryl's nose and she knows he feels her wetness, god, maybe even how swollen her clit is at the thought of what they're doing and where—and the congregation is standing up to sing but she and Daryl are lost to it, Beth's hand moving without Daryl's help now as he goes back to holding the pew, teeth bared like a wolf as he hardens and hardens in her hand.

“Come on,” Beth whispers beneath the rising hymn, leaning in close, close enough that she can smell his sweat as he wiggles his fingers around to hit her clit just right and her vision explodes into colors, “Come on, Daryl, come for me, please–“

His first spurt of cum falls in a curtain to the ground, but the second and third both splash against the pew in front of them, blending with the white varnish but making Beth gasp nonetheless, and gasp again when Daryl _grips_ her, sinking his fingers into her pussy as if holding on for dear life, pressing her lips together and her clit out and she knows if she looked down she'd see it swelling against the fabric of her panties.

But she doesn't look down. She's looking at him. Twitching in her hand, still hard as she strokes him through it, running her thumb over the leaking tip until he jerks with oversensitivity, sits quivering in her hand as he comes down. It fascinates her, how he slowly goes limp; not just his cock but all of him, slumping in the seat, breathing still harsh but more measured now, manageable.

They meet each other's eyes and his hand twitches against her clit, a delicious friction that tells her she could come in moments—but people are standing again. Filing out of the pews. The service is over and Beth lets Daryl's spent dick go, leaves him to tuck himself back in as she adjusts her dress, wipes her wet hand against her thigh. She's still burning inside, but she can handle it; she looks at Daryl and she can handle it.

It hurts her eyes coming into the brightness outside, and as she expected—and dreaded—Maggie and Carol are there, eager to hear what she thought. She gives her answers as nondescriptly as she can. Maybe they chalk up her distraction to a return to God. She doesn't care. Because soon they leave her alone and it's her and Daryl and he looks at her and she looks at him and Beth wonders—for a moment, just a moment—whether God may be with her after all, to bring this man back into her life.

But she doesn't say it. She isn't ready to say much about that.

“I'll do it better next time,” she says; blurts, as her cheeks redden and his eyes widen, just a fraction, as if he were prepared for something but still didn't quite expect what he got.

She looks at the ground and grips her skirt in her hands, feeling horribly naïve. She still looks up when he grunts, though, and this time she's the one surprised at how close he's gotten, in one step come far enough to smother her.

But she doesn't feel smothered. He's resting against her. She's holding him close.

“See you next Sunday, Greene.” It's her turn for her eyes to widen, and he smirks—the bastard smirks, even as his hand trembles where it flutters towards hers, brushes the knuckles that had been wrapped around his cock with the ones that had gripped her pussy. All in sight of the Lord.

“Or sooner,” she says.

“Or sooner.”

He brushes his knuckles against hers again, and then turns and walks away—back towards the church, beyond which the wall, where he probably would have been this whole time if not for her. If not for this thing between them.

It isn't firm enough to be God-shaped. Not quite. But there's space enough to make it so. Time, too.

There are six and a half days until next Sunday. And Beth is determined to make them count.

 


End file.
